


the cables burnt and lines flare

by bergamots



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, jean is an 11/10 friend, riza does it all in heels, roy is a jealous idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 13:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12508020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergamots/pseuds/bergamots
Summary: An undercover mission to stop a child trafficker goes horribly wrong for Team Mustang.





	the cables burnt and lines flare

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the new plot points coming out of the live action! i’m a slut for the tropes involved and i’m looking forward to the movie when it premieres in dec!!!!! it looks to be a fun romp and this fic is just one of those too – i just took a few creative liberties ahah. riza’s dress is based upon the wonderful drawing done by abstractmouse, which you can find on their tumblr.
> 
> my thanks to the four gin and tonics that helped me write this. ur contribution to terrible spelling and grammar was invaluable.

It wasn’t meant to go this way – they had spent _weeks_ going over every eventuality, planning out exactly how this operation was supposed to go down. Their perp – Francis Buchannan-Kenly – had been involved in multiple cases of child trafficking into the northern Aerugean region, and this gala was their best chance to ensure that he wouldn’t slip beyond their jurisdiction once more. It had been an operation months in the making, and the entire team had spent many long nights rehearsing their roles – Jean and Kain as ‘intoxicated’ guests; Heymans and Vato ensuring that both the staff and guest list didn’t allow for any of Francis’ associates to slip in undetected; and herself posing as a ditzy socialite. Roy was technically there as himself: as a young and arrogant colonel with money to throw around, and one of Madame Christmas’ girls if Riza didn’t take as bait.

Of all eventualities, they weren’t expecting a loaded and cocked pistol, and Riza certainly wasn’t expecting to be on the receiving end of it.

The night had started off so well:  she had been given a dark cocktail dress by Roy that by all accounts she would have never worn under any other circumstances, but after trying it on and seeing his, well, _reaction_ , she had bit her smirk down and agreed that this would certainly do the job of getting Francis’ attention. It was a beautiful dress, made from dark satin and gold thread embellishing that glinted in the warm light of the ballroom. Surprisingly, it did a good job of covering up the majority of her tattoo; but what Riza loved most of all about the dress was how _short_ it was. Even without the heels that made Roy stare for a _bit_ longer than strictly – and _that_ she would admit gave her more pleasure than she really should have – the dress was a real piece of art. Short styles like these, even with the gauzy peplum that framed her calves, would be seen as practically _scandalous_ for the annual Blackburn Charity Gala – and it was this hope that Francis wouldn’t be able to resist a – what had Jean called her?

 _A hot piece of sin_.

It had certainly worked. Francis had made a beeline for her as soon as she had entered the ballroom, already reeking of brandy and general sleaziness. He had swept her up in at least four dances – and Riza would hand it to him, the man knew how to dance. What was less enjoyable were the daggers she knew were being stared into Francis’ back: every time she glanced over to where Roy was with Carla, he had an ugly expression marring the usually confident smirk he relied on for these kinds of events. It was wholly unprofessional; but then, both their behaviours’ leading up to this event had certainly been left wanting. Roy had been in a foul mood in the weeks before the operation was set to take place, and Riza couldn’t put her finger on why.

She had managed to extract herself from the man’s clammy grip long enough to signal to Fuery that _somebody_ needed to check in on their superior before he had grabbed her once again, his hand drifting low on her dress and skimming the skin just under the hemline. She had swallowed her bile and disgust and smiled instead, girlishly laughing and swatting teasingly at his hands. It was surprisingly easy to compartmentalise her revulsion as he led her into another dance – this time a slow waltz that Riza knew would bring more wandering fingers and stale breath down her neck. She ducked her head as best she could against his sweating body – he no longer smelled like overpowering aftershave, it instead had mellowed into something far more sickly and saccharine.

“What’s a _naughty_ girl like you doing in a respectable place like this?” he had asked, gripping her fingers tightly within her own.

She laughed lightly, a well-practiced smile gracing her lips that bared her teeth _just_ so. “Oh, you know,” she began, making sure to inflect enough breathiness into her tone. “I just _adore_ seeing all the wives’ reactions.”

He laughed loudly, twirling her out before pulling her back in even closer than before. “And do you always tart up like this, or did you know I was coming?”

Riza looked up at him through her eyelashes and swallowed. “Call it a happy coincidence Mr. Buchannan-Kenly.” She inclined her head towards the bar. “Would you care for a drink?”

It had happened so quickly – one moment she was laughing prettily with a flute of sparkling wine and batting her heavily made up eyes at Francis – the next she was facing the familiar barrel of a pistol and the screams of the gala attendees around them. Riza was a little ashamed to admit that she paused for longer than necessary – not out of fear, but rather shock that this had slipped by them – _how could they have been so stupid?_ – before she felt herself being tackled to the ground as a shot rang out in the ballroom, followed by shattering glass and even more screams.

Francis had fled in the confusion, and she saw Jean and Kain immediately take off towards the back of the ballroom, shouting for the other undercover officers to follow them. The gunshot was still ringing in her ears as she tried to shift underneath the man who had tackled her – and with growing dread Riza realised just _who_ that man was, the blood already beginning to pool on the varnished wood beneath them.

“You fucking idiot,” she breathed, sitting up as quickly as she could manage without moving him. She couldn’t tell where the wound was yet – _why did he have to wear a black tuxedo? Why couldn’t he be his ostentatious self for once? –_ only that the pool was growing steadily bigger and he was thankfully still breathing. First aid training began to filter through her jumbled thoughts. _Find the wound. Stanch the bleeding. Elevate. Get to a doctor._

“Sir,” she said softly, ducking her head down to his, brushing away his hair that had fallen out of its slicked-back hairstyle. His forehead felt unnaturally warm and clammy. “Where’s the wound?”

“Leg,” he groaned back, rolling over onto his back with some difficulty and hissing as his head hit the floor. “Didn’t realise getting shot would hurt this much,” he managed as she carefully parted the tear in his fabric and sucked in her breath harshly. The wound was not as terrible as she had imagined – the bleeding wasn’t constant enough to have hit a vein, but the sluggish rate that it was managing was worrying her.

“I need a tourniquet,” Riza murmured, her hands hovering over the injury, only trembling slightly. Her heart was racing and she knew she had minutes at best before his blood loss would become critical, but she was finding it hard to concentrate between the ringing in her ears and his laboured breaths. _How_ had this gone so fucking wrong?

“My jacket-” he began, but she cut him off, shaking her head.

“Too thick, won’t be able to apply enough pressure.” She looked wildly around the now deserted ballroom, vaguely aware of the screams from outside and the familiar wail of police sirens in the distance. The gauze of her peplum brushed against her legs as she sat up properly and she felt near to sobbing as she gripped the thin fabric and pulled harshly against the stitching.

“You’re an impossible man, I hope you know,” she managed as she continued to rip at the peplum harshly, rolling it up into a single length of fabric. She tested its strength, before nodding and shifting to sit directly in front on the wound, his blood uncomfortably warm and sticky against her bare legs.

He coughed, and then groaned. “And you’re the rudest nurse I’ve ever had. Has anybody told you off about your bedside manner?”

“Plenty of times, sir. Are you able to lift your leg, or should I?”

He shook his head slightly, rubbing at his eyes with his hands. “You better do it. I’ll just injure myself further and – FUCKING HELL RIZA!”

She ignored him, adjusting the position of the makeshift tourniquet before tying it as tightly as she could on his upper thigh. She lifted his leg against to secure the tautness of the knot and he hissed once more, muttering darkly under his breath. She glanced back to where his wound was on his lower thigh – it looked like the blood was stemming, but she couldn’t be sure. The sirens of the military police were growing louder. She had to get them out of here – their involvement in this operation had been _extremely_ under the table and any time spent explaining why the Flame Alchemist had been shot in the leg was time that could otherwise be used getting him to a doctor. The military police were fine men and woman, but Riza didn’t have time to hold their hand and patiently explain everything to them. She bit her lip, thinking. The others would already be reconvening at the safe house, hopefully finding a doctor along the way – at the very least Jean would be watching for their exit.

She had to act fast. In a matter of minutes this place would be crawling with well-to-do but meddling officers. The closest entrance that would arouse the least suspicion was a small exit used by the staff – all the way across the room. The screams and cacophony outside was growing louder. They had to leave _now_.

“You won’t be able to walk, will you?” she asked quickly, shifting behind him to help him sit up. He shook his head.

“Not as fast as we’ll need to be. Let’s hope one of the boys is close by.”

“We’ll manage,” she replied shortly, moving to squat down in front of him, breathing deeply as he wound his arms tightly around her neck. They had one chance to get this lift right – otherwise it would be a disaster.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“I trust you Riza,” he murmured and she snorted.

“That’s _Lieutenant Hawkeye_ to you, sir. You’re not dying on me yet.”

* * *

He had grumbled and groused the entire time she carried him out of the building, whining that she was jostling him too harshly, but Riza didn’t care. So long as he kept talking – and talking like himself, the big _baby_ – she could let herself relax a little. They were going to make it out of this. Roy would survive to live (and complain) another day.

It had been less fun ducking from the police. The block where the gala had been held had almost been completely cordoned off by the time she had made it outside, and it was only through sheer determination that she was _never_ going to be asked why she was piggy-backing a full grown man through the alleyways of East City covered in blood that she was able to powerwalk onto the lesser known roads. Fuery’s safe house was only a couple more blocks away – the district they were in wasn’t the worst that East City had to offer, but it certainly wasn’t the _cleanest_ either. Riza supposed she might actually fit in here, what with her torn and ruined dress, and blood congealing and flaking on her calves.

“We’re a right sight, sir,” she said as she waited for a lone car to pass them by before stepping out onto the street.

“Are we?” he murmured, his breath warm on her neck. “I thought you looked rather pretty tonight.”

“You did pick out the dress sir,” she replied dryly, looking down to make sure to see where the curb was. “I thought the peplum was a bit much, to be honest.”

“And yet it saved my life. I’m _always_ thinking ahead Lieutenant.”

“Were you intending to get shot?” she reproached, ducking down another dark alleyway. There was a crash from a rubbish bin further up and Riza stopped in her tracks, fingers unconsciously reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

“Probably just a stray cat,” Roy said quietly after a moment of tense silence, tightening his hold around her neck as she swayed slightly under their combined weight. “The only people who will be looking for us are the ones we want to find us.”

“What about _Francis?”_ she spat out, slowly starting to move once more. “We’ve got no idea if the officers we stationed outside did their _fucking_ jobs-”

“I’m sure they did,” he soothed, pressing his lips against the taut muscles of her neck softly. “Just as you did your job brilliantly as well.”

She laughed bitterly. “You got shot. I think I’ve failed as your bodyguard if I can’t even protect you from a greasy old man with an even older revolver.”

Roy sighed in frustration. “You know as well as I do that _that_ was not your fault in the slightest-”

She rounded the corner and stumbled slightly as she saw the familiar entrance to Fuery’s safe house. Jean was waiting by the entrance, smoking a cigarette and watching the smoke drift above him in lazy patterns.

“Hello Jacqueline,” she called out.

He jerked his head to where she stood, and quickly stubbed the cigarette out. “Old Frankie got caught out by the police that Heymans had stationed out by the kitchen entrance – you were right, he had a car waiting for him to take him over the border.” He smiled brightly at the two of them. “You guys get out okay?”

Riza nodded wearily, adjusting her arms slightly. Roy huffed in annoyance. “They’ve got the documents?” he asked.

Jean nodded, grinning broadly. “Every fuckin’ incriminating one. He’s going away for a _long_ time Chief.”

Roy nodded, resting his chin on her shoulder, awkwardly trying to manoeuvre around the ruffled fabric adornment that jutted out from her right shoulder. “You got a doctor for me Havoc?” he asked grumpily. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get this bullet out of me.”

Jean nodded hastily, quickly running down the steps to meet them at the bottom. “My car is just down the road, you’re okay to keep carrying him?”

Riza sighed and shook her head. “What’s a few more metres?”

* * *

The ride to the clinic had been quick – Jean drove like a madman at the best of times, and with the streets practically deserted at the late hour meant that Roy was quickly passed along to a doctor who muttered darkly about _kids these days_ while accepting a thick sealed envelope from Riza.

“You did a good job,” the doctor said to Riza, not even blinking at the sight she must have made in the harsh light of the clinic. “If you hadn’t made a tourniquet for him I’m not sure I could’ve helped you.”

Riza nodded, her shoulders sagging slightly as she felt the exhaustion from the night’s events start to kick in. “Thank you, doctor. Please don’t take his whining to heart.”

The doctor gave a toothy grin. “

Jean paused. “I just realised. You _carried_ him to Fuery’s in heels from the hotel. In _heels?”_

Riza opened her mouth to respond, and shut it, shaking her head in bewilderment. “Would adrenaline be a good enough excuse?” she asked, running a hand through what remained of the small braids Roy had done earlier that afternoon. “I honestly wasn’t thinking about anything other than getting us away from the police.”

Jean let out a low whistle. “We’re getting married after this Elizabeth,” he said as they watched the doctor begin to cut up Roy’s trousers. “We’ll get a little shack out in the country where I can watch you running after sheep in your magnificent heels for the rest of our lives.” His arm slung around her shoulders loosely and she felt his hand squeeze her shoulder reassuringly.

Roy snorted.

She let out a watery chuckle, and suddenly she found herself being pulled properly into the taller man’s chest, vaguely aware of Roy protesting behind her. “She’s fine, chief,” she heard Jean say, his hands warm on her back, careful not to shift her hair. “You worry about yourself – we’ll go get some fresh air and clean ourselves up.”

He guided her firmly out of the small clinic, forcing her to sit down on the wooden bench outside. His face looked tired in the light bleeding in from the clinic, highlighting the deep lines of worry. He kneeled in front of her, his hands resting on her bloodied knees. “Don’t go blaming yourself for this, Riza – none of us-”

“We should’ve-” she began, but he shook his head.

“Nobody could anticipate a _gun_. It’s certainly not his M.O.” Jean sighed, grasping her bloodied hands in his own. “We’ll debrief tomorrow, look at where we went wrong, and learn from our mistakes. You’re in shock right now, and I need to get you clean. Is it just his blood?”

Riza bit her lip and nodded.

Jean sighed deeply. “I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t move.”

She felt the warmth from his body wash over him as he walked back into the clinic. No matter how Jean tried to frame it, this wasn’t a victory. Roy had been needlessly shot – she had allowed herself to be put in danger and it had nearly jeopardised the entire operation. Months had been sunk into catching this _monster_ and it had almost unravelled for reasons she couldn’t yet understand. _Why_ had Francis pulled the gun on her? She thought she had played her part well of the stumbling, ditzy socialite – where had she failed? It didn’t make _sense_.

It was hard to breathe. Hard to see – when the door to the clinic opened again she could only see blurred shapes through her tears. Jean’s hands were soft on her face as he tried to calm her down, thumbs rubbing at her cheekbones. She hated feeling weak like this – feeling _useless._ She could have died in that ballroom, brain matter and blood splattered around her head like some kind of unholy crown. _He_ could have died.

Jean slowly went about cleaning her palms of the sticky, congealing blood, the small towel quickly turning an awful salmon colour. Her legs came next, Jean scrubbing them down as best he could. She sat there, and tried her best not to sob.

Jean sat down next to her on the bench and grasped her hands tightly in his own, murmuring about how none of this was _any_ of their faults, and Francis had been caught with the evidence they needed to lock him up. She didn’t know how long they sat there, Jean rubbing her hands and continually talking in low tones. She focused on the faint sounds of traffic in the distance, trained her eyes to the haze that was the East City CBD. She focused on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out

The doctor poked his head out the door. “Your man is all finished. He has some medication for pain but otherwise will heal fine. Bring him back in a week so I can check on the stitches, but so long as he doesn’t do any exercise he’ll be okay.”

“Thank you doctor,” Jean replied, standing up and shaking the doctor’s hand. “We’re very grateful to you.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure you are. Now bugger off, I’ve got a warm bed I want to return to.”

They helped Roy back into the car, and Jean quickly made his way through the deserted city to Roy’s apartment. The street was deserted as they helped him up the steps, and Riza mouthed a ‘thank you’ to the blond man as Roy unlocked his front door, extending a hand for Riza to grasp.

It was quiet in his apartment as they shuffled around in the dark, trying their best not to wake Hayate who was asleep on the couch. It didn’t matter – the dog immediately perked his head up when they walked past but instead remained on the couch, watching the two of them slowly divest their clothes. Roy disappeared down the hall to his bedroom and Riza made herself a cup of tea, curling up on the couch and absently rubbing Hayate’s head. She was about ready to drop dead on her feet – quite literally, she wasn’t looking forward to the blisters that would undoubtedly appear on her feet tomorrow. Tomorrow would present its own challenges: finding out exactly what went wrong in their reconnaissance to grossly miscalculate a fucking _gun_. Riza sighed, and placed the still-warm mug on the coffee table, careful not to topple any of the paperwork piled up on the small table. Dropping a soft kiss on her dog’s head, she padded her way down to Roy’s bedroom, and began to undo the zip on what remained of the dress – most of it was certainly beyond repair now. She draped it over the chair next to the dresser, and quickly threw her bra onto the ground.

“Don’t bother with a shower,” Roy said lowly, already hogging most of the blankets on the bed. “I already smell like a hospital. We’ll even each other out.”

Riza snorted, taking off her earrings and placing them on the overcrowded dresser. “And the girls say you’re nothing but charm,” she teased, grabbing an old t-shirt from his laundry pile and putting it on. She sat next to him on the bed and started to undo what was left of the intricate hairstyle she had begun with that evening: her fringe was already beginning to kink in the worst ways as she took out the pins and untangled the knots left behind.

“I don’t care about what the girls say,” he replied, pulling at the edge of her shirt. She slid into bed next to him and she nestled her head in the crook of his neck, breathing deeply as his hands drew lazy patterns over her hips. “I have you,” he murmured quietly, kissing her head softly.


End file.
